Wandering Lights

Written by Igor Retz | Edited by Jessica Filippi |

The
winter was still far, far away, but the forest creatures already felt
a premonition of its freezing breath in the early morning hours.
Hamsters and chipmunks rushed to the fields searching for grain with
which to fill their underground stores to the top. Wood goblins
gathered barrels of clover honey and pine nuts. Trolls and gnomes
picked berries and brewed an abundance of berry jam that would later
fill hundreds of clay pots that lined up on long shelves in ranks
like plump little soldiers whose sole duty was to help the forest
folk survive until spring.

The
sun was taking longer and longer to come out in the morning. As if it
had become tired of all the great work it had been doing all summer,
it lingered beyond the skyline of the blue mountains in the West to
get an extra moment of sleep.

On
those mornings, just at that moment when the night was already over
but the sun was still in its bed, a thick gray mist rose from the
depths of Leech Swamp. It slowly spilled into the forest, silent and
shapeless in the dim twilight, like the skirt of a giant ghost. From
there--from the very thicket of the woods--it sent its soft hazy
sprouts into the fields surrounding the village.

The
villagers always tried to come to work a bit later on those days,
just to make sure that the sun was out and it had enough time to wipe
out every trace of the fog.

“See
that?” they would tell their children. “The Bog Witch is
making her soup again. We will let it clear, it’s bad luck to
step in it.”

Naturally,
the boys and girls of Skogville had many questions about the Bog
Witch and her soup. What does she put in it? Peas and carrots? Or
dead rats and murky water from the swamp? The only person in the
village who would answer those questions was Grandpa Anders. His list
of ingredients would start with

Lichen and moss

And moonlight gloss,

A birchbark flake

And ripples from a lake,

A spikelet of rye

And a bittern’s cry...

and
continue on and on until the old man ran out of breath.

If
you asked the forest folk, however, they would tell you that all
those stories were absolutely bogus. Firstly, every creature in the
Dark Forest knew that the Bog Witch made her soup every Thursday and
it wasn’t every Thursday that the fog came. Secondly, how could
the villagers know about what went into it? The only way for them to
be invited was to be on the list of ingredients.

***

Perhaps
it was the worst Thursday ever, or at least that's how it seemed to
the Old Troll when he dragged his sore feet back home, empty handed.

As
usual this time of year, while his little nisse was picking
cowberries at the swamp, the Old Troll went to raid the peasants’
stores and cellars, hoping to get his hands on some of that brown
sugar they extracted from beets. It was a good product, that sugar.
Not only did it make berry jam much sweeter, it also preserved it
better in winter than all the trollish and gnomish charms combined.

So
this morning he got up well before dawn
and went to the village, shivering in the chilly air and tripping on
dewy roots invisible in the pre-dawn twilight.

He
couldn’t recall the exact moment it happened. Being so busy
trying to stay on the trail he noticed the men only when he heard
their voices close and loud, as if they were standing right next to
him. He snapped out of his thoughts and dropped onto the wet moss
behind the nearest fir tree just in time for people with torches to
walk by.

“What’s
happening?” he asked himself,
puzzled and scared. “What are
they doing out here in the forest?”

The
men stopped and looked around. The Old Troll tried to squeeze himself
into the grass, calling to all spirits of the forest to help him
become invisible. His legs suddenly felt too big and he was almost
sure they could see the end of his staff sticking out of the leaves.

“If
we knew when they left at least, we’d be able to tell how far
they’ve gotten by now,” said one villager.

“Poor
Rasmus,” answered another. “I heard he went to the
mansion, asking to send hunters to help.”

“And?”
asked someone he couldn’t see.

“What
do you think? They threw him out. The Landlord said he’d better
be in the fields in the morning if he didn’t want his debt
doubled.”

The
peasants kept quiet for a while.

“Hey!”
called out another voice from the woods. “Come on, the fog is
rising!”

“You’re
right,” said the first man as he shivered. “Let’s
go. Hey, did the dogs pick up on anything? Nothing?”

“Poor
Rasmus,” said his friend again. “He swore they’d
keep searching even if they had to go to the very heart of the
forest.”

The
Old Troll didn’t know what to make of all that. What he did
know, however, was that while the forest around the village was
bustling with people and dogs, he had no business being anywhere
near. When the voices grew quiet, he got up and walked in the
opposite direction, sinking deeper and deeper into the thickening
mist with every step. He could still hear the villagers’ voices
and the fog made him feel like they were coming from all around him.
It was so unpleasant that he found himself walking faster and faster
and then running, though he couldn’t see a thing three feet
ahead.

Being
at risk of having no sugar for his jam wasn’t the only problem
he had to face these days.

After
the recent events with a lost villager child, his relationship with
the local forest community had gone downhill. To top it off, the Bog
Witch then denied him a place at her Thursday table, which was a huge
slap in the face in front of the entire Dark Forest. Ever since, he
had been trying to avoid meeting others to spare himself their
offensive looks and comments. This morning’s encounter with the
men from the village, however, left him so uneasy that he felt
relieved when two spots of magic green light shined through the
bushes ahead. The trail took him out in the open space where the
forest blended into marshes. The dull smell of stale water and reeds
replaced the rich aroma of pines and
rosemary.

“No
matter who it is, it couldn’t be as bad as the villagers,”
he told himself and stepped out of the trees.

It
wasn’t gnomes or fairies, as he thought at first, but a couple
of bog imps.

“Aghh...”
he swallowed an angry grunt. If there were any of the magic folk he
didn’t look forward to meeting, it was the imps.

Little
things with leathery wings and pointy ears, they hovered in the air
three feet off the ground holding lanterns. As was customary at the
Swamp, the lanterns were filled not with oil, but with rotting
touchwood that gave off cold, noxious light. This particular charge
seemed to be enchanted to glow stronger than usual, because despite
the fog and the gloom, the Old Troll could clearly see every little
detail on the bat-like figures.

The
imps saw him, too.

“Ha!”
said one of them. “Ha-ha!”

“Hey,
let me see... Isn’t it the Old Troll?” said the other,
joining his friend. “But I heard he moved to the village,
didn’t he, Zoomy?”

“What
are you talking about, Yoomy? He lives with the fairies now, can’t
you see he’s wearing a bodice?”

The
Old Troll inadvertently looked down at his tunic, causing a blast of
laughter.

“Is
that why he’s not invited to the Floating Hut anymore?”
cried the first imp in reply. “What a shame!”

The
Old Troll felt his weariness fading away as his temper got hold of
him. He slowly moved toward the bullies, switching the grip on his
staff.

“At
least I was
invited,” he said through his teeth. “Trifling bugs like
you will never stand a chance of getting anywhere near.”

The
imps choked on their laughter.

“We
just might,” one of them said, “If...”

But
at that moment the Old Troll drew closer and... WHOOSH!
swung his staff as quick and hard as he could.

Were
he a bit younger, the blow would have taken down both imps.
Unfortunately, his countless years took their toll: the imps dashed
to the sides, completely unharmed. Shouting and cursing, he chased
them into the forest, but no matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t
get even one. They zoomed just above his head like two giant
horseflies, making scornful comments and egging him on when he
stopped to catch his breath.

When
he could not swing any more, the imps were nearly dead from laughter.

“I
can’t take this anymore!” squeezed out his friend. “Look
at that old thing hopping like a rabbit!”

“Oh,
oh, careful, my brother demon!”

“Why?”

“You
see how he's puffing? One more minute of this and we’ll have a
dead troll on our hands! What will the fairies say?”

Yoomy
laughed so hard he almost dropped his lantern. He caught it by the
bronze ring in mid-fall and froze in the air, staring at the light as
if trying to remember why he had it in the first place.

“Wait!”
he shouted, “We forgot about our little business!”

“Oh,
maggots!” answered Zoomy. “Hurry! Before they get away!”

With
that, the imps disappeared so quickly that the Old Troll had a
momentary feeling that he had been fighting a mirage.

He
took a couple of seconds to gather whatever little strength he had
left in him, then walked after the scoundrels
as fast as he could. Somewhere in the back of his mind he realized
how childish his behavior was, but the frustration of recent failures
had been lying heavily on his heart and he craved a small victory to
break the spree of bad luck following him these days.

“Yes,
I’m old,” he muttered. “Old enough to know that the
one who laughs last, laughs longer!”

When
he caught a glimpse of green lights again, he stopped and hid behind
a large rock to give himself a moment to think. It was obvious that
the creatures were too quick and nimble for him, but in times like
this his ancient troll magic came in handy. He thrust his staff
toward the imps and strained his memory to make sure his spell had
all the right incantations:

Rot and touchwood, light and flame,

Go away to whence you came,

Muck and water, dirt and sand,

Time has come for games to end.

The
lights in the lanterns guttered out.

“What
happened?” asked Yoomy, so puzzled that the Old Troll almost
gave himself away with laughter.

“What
did you do?” screeched Zoomy in a thin voice. “Did you
mess up the charms again, mosquito?”

“No,
it wasn’t me! Don't call me mosquito, you're the mosquito!”

Watching
the imps tinkering with their lanterns and fighting was more
enjoyable than anything else that had happened to the Old Troll this
whole summer. He honestly couldn’t tell what was harder to hold
back -- the chuckles that were tearing him apart or the imps’
lantern charms that fought his own spell, trying to break free.

“Come
on!” whispered the Old Troll, clutching at the trembling staff
with both hands. “Come on!”